No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.

What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery?

Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?

His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. He is indeed a horse.

Is it possible that love should of a sudden take such a hold?

But yet, I say, if imputation and strong circumstances, which lead directly to the door of truth, will give you satisfaction, you may have it.

Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!